


semper ad meliora

by hells_intern



Series: Quick Writes [7]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Angels, Fallen Angels, Four Horsemen, Gen, Hospitals, also death is referred to with inconsistent pronouns, death being a lil bit of a hypocrite, death is a touch starved bitch and so are the others], death just likes being a parent even if for only a few minutes, mentioned death of child, none of the horsemen are and will be romantically involved together, sorry if its a bit confusing, they're just v sad basically family-, this version of death is an oc of mine btw, unnecessary research about ancient greece for deaths kinda gf
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-04
Updated: 2018-08-26
Packaged: 2019-06-05 10:01:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15168281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hells_intern/pseuds/hells_intern
Summary: "Death sits, waiting. They wait for the deliverer of whatever afterlife the child in their arms is meant for and absentmindedly they shift the child in their arms so she’s safe from the gentle pour overhead."----The horseman Death has some v minor reflection, parental instincts, and gets annoyed with the local asshole angelPestilence deals with an interruption at work





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> i was listening to starchild by ghost quartet while making this, would recommend as mood music tbh
> 
> the title "semper ad meliora" is just an interesting latin phrase meaning "always toward better things", something i think death would personally admire

Death sits outside on the curb, face hidden by the neon lights and shadows as the moon shines softly overhead. People and cars pass by without a second thought to the businessman sitting silently on the street, baby in her arms. The sound of ambulance sirens call out from afar around them, mixing with the hushed footsteps and conversations. Death cradles the child close to their chest, murmuring soft long forgotten songs in a language the baby in their arms will never understand to quiet their cries for her mother. They feel his heart break knowing the stillborn in her arms will never know the woman who gave birth to her.  _ But such is life, _ they think to themself.

Death sits, waiting. They wait for the deliverer of whatever afterlife the child in their arms is meant for and absentmindedly they shift the child in their arms so she’s safe from the gentle pour overhead. While the baby still squirms in his arms, the new position does offer them some small comfort.

Unknowingly, she smiles to themself, watching the baby fondly. He wouldn’t mind staying like this, they think.

The smile falls quickly as the baby’s features are suddenly bathed in a harsh white light, rainbows of color mixed within unseeable to the human eye. It’s time to give the baby up.

Death stands and turns to the angel floating behind them with a blank, professional expression looking up at the mass of eyes and wings that exists for once a brief second before melting into something more familiar for the child nestled safely in Death’s arms. 

“Shouldn’t you have left by now?,” the angel asks apathetic, taking the child -  _ Victoria _ , the still-grieving parents had cried to the doctor - into their too perfect arms, taking them without permission. But Death supposes they had done the same to the couple within the hospital behind them. 

Regardless, their question causes a small amount of bile to rise in their throat as she imagines the still too young child left out on the curb alone in the rain, unaware of her true situation. Immediately their instincts call for him to take back Victoria from the angel but he forces herself to be relaxed. It does bring them a small sense of amusement to watch the angel’s growing discomfort as the baby squirms in their arms.

“People’ll die so long as I exist,” they instead respond quietly, not wanting to break the atmosphere already set around them. “Me being there or not doesn’t change anything except their sense of comfort.”

The angel just hums, wiping raindrops off the baby’s face with their too cold, too hot hands. “I’d think those like you would enjoy seeing your work in action.”  
Despite their firm control on their emotions, Death feels their hand twitch. 

“What do you mean by ‘those like me’?,” they ask cooly.

The angel just waves them off. The sight of the them holding Victoria with only one arm sets his instincts into an unnecessary alarm. 

“Horsemen,” the angel says, “those who were made to destroy. I doubt you have much else to do after all.”  
Death tries to hold back the annoyed snort she feels building in their throat.

“I’m not even sure why you four were created in the first place, really. All your needless destruction and fear shouldn’t be necessary in this world but I suppose such flaws can be hard to catch.” 

The soft cry Victoria makes when the angel presses one of their too warm hands onto her forehead finally gets him to snap, regardless of how horribly unprofessional it’d be.

Acting on emotion, Death rips off the gloves that keep the living alive around them and grabs the angel’s wrist with a crushing grip, twisting it around to cause a minor degree of pain. Though they can’t truly kill the angel (at least, they think they can’t), the light flickers and dies out from the spot his skin touches and small tendrils that start as a pitch black and turn grey as they travel away grow up the angel’s arm, making patterns where veins should be.

Spiteful as the action was, it’s enough to shut the angel as well as not harm the baby within their arms.

Staring defiantly into the angel’s wide eyes, Death hisses out her warning to them. 

“ _ Would you truly deny the blessings I deliver? I bring relief to the children born sickly and wear, who’d have more pain and suffering in life than with me _ .  _ I bring peace to those wronged by dragging those who’ve hurt them into the s a m e grave  _ 6 feet under  _ all must go to. Without  _ me, _ cities would overflow as land becomes crowded, forcing man and nature to constantly odds with each other just to live. The chain of life would suffer for no death means no food and there’d be more out on the streets wishing,  _ begging  _ for my return than there’d be those rejoicing I am gone. _ ”

She pushes the angel’s arm upwards, forcing them to bend their body with his actions. The baby sleeps soundly in their arms, unaware of the fear the one carrying them is in.

“ _ I too am an angel regardless of what other believe and my job as death isn’t the black and white you seem to believe in. _ ”

Death finally releases the angel’s arm and shoves them hard enough to simply force them to take a step back. The angel’s wings are spread out wide behind them, making him smile despite herself. 

Before the angel can begin their shaky departure and pretend this never happened (as did all the others), Death spits one last warning at them, satisfied by the telltale uncomfortable jolt their wings give.

“I may not be like you. But that doesn’t make me cruel.”

Surrounded by a soft glow of self-satisfaction, he watches as the angel disappears as a white speck into the distance. And when they’re sure their gone, she turns on her heel and walks away, soon fading within the crowds of uncaring people.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> oh yknow. "love's a double edged sword" and all that.  
> a shorter chapter just me word dumping on how death interacted with humanity

Death had always held a fondness for humanity, something the others couldn’t understand as much as they loved and cared for the Horseman. He watched and protected and loved the very creature she knew they would have to one day have to eradicate, the set in stone future doing nothing to deteriorate their actions in the present.

They don’t enjoy talking about their first love, a long lost figure washed away from the memories of time. Somehow, after all the millennia and eons passed by, Death could still remember the crinkle around their eyes when they grinned at them and the way their hair fell around their shoulders. The others try to avoid talking about them. The Horsemen don’t enjoy the almost missable pause in her sentences when she remembers or the slight glaze that washes over his eyes. They don’t like the barely seeable tremor in his hands or the tense undertone to her following words, despite the growing control she’s developed over the years and years. They don’t like it but they still would have to admit it’s better than how they used to be.

Often, they’re left to their own devices after those days. It’s much more preferable to deal with the waves of melancholy without someone to drown.

Pestilence teases them for days after that line.

When they fall in love ( _in actual love_ , they claim, _not just soft crushes_. The others don’t believe them) again, it’s with a tall beautiful woman with knowledge that surpassed anything Death had seen any mortal possess. Amusingly enough, the woman was a princess, like a story out of a book. Her smile and conversation drew Death himself from their hiding place and before they’d realized what’d happened, she found herself thinking about the woman’s laugh when they played harmless tricks on her servants and her dark eyes more entrancing than Beauty herself (another line that’d brought relentless teasing from Pestilence. Death made a resolution to never talk about love to them again).

Death admired (admires) her too soft hands and heart, her warm smile and skin. They watched with fondness when the woman laughed in the shining sun, fierce eyes somehow soft as she looked at the flowers and red suns painted on her cheeks. He holds her hand as she helps them remember which man was what character in the play, skin hidden by wraps they refuse to move. Not again. She comforts her when she comes back from her father’s assembly where the men don’t hesitate to voice their _exact_ thoughts of a women’s nature. He murmurs quiet stories about what has been and what could be, holding her against him when she wakes up with another nightmare.

And they cry when she’s given away to another man, some king, by her father even when they knew that it was inevitable. As much as they loved her, how can you explain to people that your husband (wife? spouse?) was Death themself? _How_ , they thought soberly to themself at night, _could you live until the end with someone you could never kiss or touch?_

They couldn’t help their lingering gaze when they saw her walking among the people with her husband. They couldn’t help their eavesdropping when they hear news and stories about the things her son had done, a quiet hope flaming up when they heard any mention of her name. They saw her determination and spirit within her son. Quietly, just as always had been, they helped him when they could. Some young boy named Hercules.

War is the one who finds them first during one of their pining periods. Death hears their sigh and warm, almost burning hand on their back as they sit next to him on his perch. They let her lean on them as they pet their hair, going off onto an exaggerated monologue about what they’d do if they had found the mortal that’d hurt her. She close her eyes as they carefully stroke his cheek, only half listening to their words of warning about how humans were.

War had always viewed humanity through a detached, dissociated set of lenses that, as much as it saddened him, Death couldn’t blame them for. They saw wars past and current every time they blinked with the eyes of a soldier, felt the pain with the blood of the innocent, and waited for future wars like the calm before the storm. Any love they’d felt for humanity was reluctant and soft and quiet against the apprehension they covered with loud words and show.

So Death simply focused on their voice rather than their words, letting themselves relax over the rare touch they could have. And when they fell asleep, tired from the anger inside, War took them back home.

Death waits, calm and quiet from afar, as humanity grows around them. They just wait atop their perch and watch as life grows and evolves from seemingly simple steps and changes. They watch themselves more carefully, unsure and scared of what might happen with one too many lost loves. But they can’t stop the affection for humanity itself. And they can’t stop the nights spent thinking about how it was or how it could be if everything was a little bit different.

And as they look back onto lost nights of smiles and starlight, they can’t help but think that they’d do it all over again if they could.

 


	3. I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pestilence wants their shift to end already.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> most of this chapter was inspired by corvidprompts on tumblr. also a majority of this was originally written around midnight last night so sorry if there's any grammar errors-

Doctor Crohn White strode down the hall, flipping through the filled out forms on their clipboard.

They looked up at the ceiling in confusion as a familiar sounding elevator tune played faintly throughout the wing. Crohn glanced over at the bored secretary typing up files on his computer.

“Wasn’t that song playing when I came in yesterday?”

“Mm. It hasn’t stopped playing since.”

Crohn frowned as they went and leaned against the counter of the secretary’s desk. They passed him their completed forms for the day, which he took wordlessly and without a second glance.

“They really haven’t fixed it yet?”

“I’d imagine with the dying people around they have other pressing concerns.”

Crohn liked talking with him.

“I dunno,” they sighed dramatically, turning around so they could properly sprawl on the counter. “I find it hard to keep the scalpel steady when all that’s playing is repetitive bullshit.”

They grinned when they heard a snort from behind them.

“Then I’ll be sure to pass on your  _ oh-so-pressing _ complaint to the IT department.”

“Aww, thanks babe.”

“Sorry, I’m married.”

Crohn forze before turning around and slamming their hands down on the counter.

“Wait, stop everything,  _ what? _ We’ve been working together for  _ years _ and you never told me about your spouse?”

“I like to keep things professional.”  
“Well, fuck, what’s their name, tell me everything!”

“Sounds unprofessional.”  
The doctor huffed and opened their mouth to reply. At the same time, a set of doors banged open behind them accompanied by the sound of someone stumbling and worried voices.

_ What the fuck. _

Crohn looked behind them and felt their heart stop.

Trying to shake off the concerned hands reaching for him stood a tall bloodied and bruised man who looked like someone had shoved him into a blazing bonfire then dragged him through mud before dropping him off at the hospital’s doorstep. He had long matted black hair that Crohn knew, even from the distance between them, had blood dried up around the strands. Parts of his forearms were covered in already now dirtied bandages covering the burns Crohen knew would be there. The small herd of nurses and doctors around him were doing their best to not grab onto his injuries.

But what caught Crohn’s eyes the most were the pair of wings behind him. Unfurled around him trying to brush away the mortals around him (and only passing through every time) were large wings caked in ash and blood that made it impossible to tell what color his feathers was. The wings looked as if someone had ripped them apart and left only parts behind. Lonely feathers were barely hanging onto the frame. They still angrily flapped around him as if enraged that they weren’t in the air.

_ Angel. _

A part of them felt tempted to turn back around and continue pestering the secretary about his love life and let the angel stumble around some more but there would be some kind of inevitable paperwork if he suddenly went Righteous Messenger of God on everyone. So instead the good doctor pushed themself off the counter with an exaggerated gasp that was louder than necessary and jogged up to the muddled angel.

“ _Why_ are you here instead of your room, John?”  
The angel stared down at them in bewilderment as Crohn took his dirt smudged hand into their gloved one, gently placing their other hand on his shoulder. The nurses and doctors looked at Crohn in surprise.

One of the doctors cleared her throat to catch their attention.

“Is he one of yours, Doctor White?”

Crohn nodded, flashing her a practiced smile. “I knew he was out of it when I left to find his files but I didn’t know it was enough to try to leave!” _Dear shit, please let that sound more believable than it did in my head._  
Fortunately she smiled back sympathetically.

“Do you think you’ll need any help getting him back to his room?”

Crohn just waved her off, trying to act friendlier than they felt. “Oh no, no, I’m sure I’ll be fine!”

They turned around on their heel and started to lead the increasingly confused angel away from the small crowd. Crohn let the fake smile fall from their face once they pushed open the set of doors leading to the wing where their office was located.

Quickly dragging the angel along as they ignored his questions, they shoved him into their office room and closed the blinds. He stumbled for a moment before whirling around with a clear confusion.

“What on Earth-”  
“You can’t just _leave_ when you want!,” they hissed at him. Instinctively his wings cautiously raised up behind him. “Humans won’t believe you healed up _that_ fast and you’ll have to deal with people asking questions-”  
He stared at them, lost. “What?” His voice sounded hoarse as if he hadn’t drank anything in weeks.

“Damn. Another thing to remember is that you need food and water now, so-”

His wings spread as far as they could in alarm which might’ve been more impressive if they didn’t ressemble a Barbie’s head after a two-year-old with scissors had gone at it.

“ _ How do you know what I am? _ ” His eyes narrowed as he watched them carefully.

Crohn blinked in surprise. “How do I- wait, are you serious? I thought all angels had that whole detection shit going on?”

The angel looked at them blankly before his eyes widened. His body and wings went stiff as he finally seemed to realize what they were.

Crohn would’ve probably laughed if they weren’t offended at how he practically threw himself away from them, scrambling to get as far as possible from  _ them _ . He pressed his back against the beige walls, snarling at them with frantic eyes trying to find a way out of the room. He looked like a cornered animal as he stammered at them.

“You- you are an  _ aberration,  _ a  _ deviant-  _ a  _ freak _ -” 

Doctor Crohn stared down at the hissing angel, who’d drawn his ruined wings around him as if it’d protect him, unimpressed.  _ I’m already regretting this. _

“Are you gonna go through the rest of the alphabet, or can we move on?,” they sighed.

Briefly his wild expression faltered, taken off-guard. But as soon as they took a step towards him, he snarled once more as his wings began to puff up. 

Crohn simply raised an eyebrow at him but kept their hands in view in front of them and approached slower.  _ Almost like approaching a feral dog, _ they thought to themselves amusedly.

The angel wasn’t sure why they were chuckling at him but Crohn spotted an indignant flush across his skin. Crohn just smirked at him as they continued inching forward.

The angel actually  _ growled _ at them when they gripped onto his upper arm, eyes frantic. They supposed they weren’t helping his nerves much as bark of laughter left them, the feral dog metaphor even more prominent in their mind.

“Y’know, if I really wanted to hurt you, I would’ve easily done so by now. Recent Fallen are too weak to properly defend themselves from even mortal weapons. And I got plenty of scalpels.”  
“ _Is that supposed to comfort me?,_ ” he deadpans, keeping a close eye on their hands.

“Oh no, of course not,” they reply casually. He watches wearily as they draw a hand back and pull off the glove with their teeth, refusing to let go of their firm hold on his arm. “Just something to focus on through the pain.”

“The  _ what- _ ”

Crohn shoved their bare hand through his chest.

The angel’s eyes widened, his mouth falling open in a silent scream. Carefully, Crohn focused on keeping their hand light and dissolved as they felt around the inside of his chest. As far as they gathered from past patients, shoving your hand past someone’s atoms and feeling around their insides for what’s making them sick  _ doesn’t _ hurt. Or at least. Not too bad.

But fear and shock has a way of making things seem more horrible than it truly is, which they supposed was the reason the angel kept trying to rip his arm out of their grasp seemingly as violently as possible. The arm they couldn’t hold down was clawing and shoving at the arm partially inside his chest, blunt dirtied nails trying to rip at skin that wasn’t there.

Crohn did their best to ignore the increasingly agitated mass of feathers and anger thrashing around them as they focused on the feeling they knew would be in his chest. Their hand felt through the cool almost-breeze like sensation they’ve come to associated with angels until they sense a soft, dry heat further up. Slowly, using their hand as a detector, they raised their arm further towards the source. The closer they got, the more burning the sensation became, a feeling Crohn would best compare to as burning hot needles driving themselves deep into their flesh and expanding the smaller the distance became. A soft strained involuntary hiss of pain crawled out of Crohn’s throat as they forced their fist to close around a smooth surface, so burning hot it almost felt cool.

Dimly, they wondered if this could be compared to the same sensation as shoving your hand into raging magma.

Would one die or be cauterized instantly by exposing only part of their limbs to lava? Hm.. Something for future examination.

They were helpfully snapped out of their hazy pondering by a rogue arm swatting them across the face. Crohn grimaced and finally released the frantic angel from their grasp, pulling the sensation from his bruised chest as the angel fell back against the cold, unfeeling tile. 

Carefully turning it, Crohn examined the sensation from the angel’s chest. It looked like the physical embodiment of everything wrong with the world, burning cold and oozing in solid form around their hand. They watched in mild disgust as it dripped without ever breaking apart from its mass, still it’s hot-cold temperature. Briefly, Crohn wondered if it would burn through the floor if they let if fall. So like any good doctor, they put it inside a jar instead, which they then put inside their lovely bright yellow duffel bag that almost made their roommate, Adon, disown them.

“What in  _ God’s name- _ ”

“Funny you should mention Them!,” Crohn chirped, “‘Cause They’re the reason you have this fun little thing inside of you!” And, like any good doctor would do, they shook the jar and watched the sensation bounce around inside.

The murderous burning gaze of the angel faltered as they finished, broken eyes fixated on the horrorshow that was inside them with an obvious disbelief and betrayal present. From feral to kicked puppy.

Crohn felt the smallest tug on their heartstrings when they saw the growing despair building up in the angel. It’s not a very nice feeling, knowing that the one who’ve you lived your entire existence for tossed you down and willingly let something all-hating fester inside you to torture you for the rest of eternity as a punishment.

Or y’know.

So they would think.

Crohn let out a sigh as they ran their fingers through their hand. They yanked open a top drawer to replace their discard glove on the floor (safety standards, kids) and held out a hand to the angel collapsed in himself. In a totally surprising twist of events, the angel didn’t take it and instead opted to shield himself from the outside world with what was left of his smouldering wings.

They looked at the mess of an angel, unimpressed.

“C’mon, Tweety Bird. If you want some chance at being left alone after they let you go, we should forge some life records or something. Or a bank account and warranty deeds, for one.”

The angel looked up at them through his charred feathers, eyes blurry. “Wha… what?”

“People are nosy and no records are a big thing to them _for some reason_. A bank account and card’ll help, like, basically everything the involves finances and deeds-”  
“Why are you doing this?”  
Crohn squinted down at the angel, whose wings were starting to slowly unfurl from his shell. He was staring at them in a lost confusion. Better than those begging puppy eyes, they supposed.

“Doing what? Being a decent fuckin’ person? It’s ‘cause I’m so nice. Now get off the tiles, messenger boy, you’re gonna get ash everywhere.”


End file.
